Through the Fire
by Clio1792
Summary: Romantic Fan-Fiction piece, based upon Baroness Orczy's "Child of the Revolution."


**Through the Fire**

_Through the fire, to the limit, to the wall  
For a chance to be with you  
I'd gladly risk it all  
Through the fire  
Through whatever, come what may  
For a chance at loving you  
I'd take it all the way  
Right down to the wire  
Even through the fire…._

_I know you're afraid of what you feel_  
_You still need time to heal_  
_And I can help if you'll only let me try_  
_You touch me and something in me knew_  
_What I could have with you_  
_Now I'm not ready_  
_to kiss that dream goodbye_

_When it's this sweet, there's no saying no_  
_I need you so, I'm ready to go_  
_Through the test of time...._

_….Chaka Khan,__** "Through the Fire,"**__ (1984)_

_I don't, of course, own Chaka Khan's wonderful song, or any works by the Baroness Orczy._

_"Through the Fire" is a ballad I've come to associate with Baroness Orczy's work because I hear in its lyrics and melody an anthem to a subject with which many of the talented writers I've been privileged to read on this website have been concerned: the danger of romance._

_When I say "danger," I refer not merely to the risks of love itself—alas, all love carries risk!--but the risks one may take in falling in love outside the safety zone of the comfortable, the predictable, or individuals within one's immediate circle. _

___On occasion, as I've mulled over possible Scarlet Pimpernel Fan Fiction scenarios, I've imagined an updated version of Orczy's classic, set, perhaps, in a Latin American country. Marguerite, in such an update, might be a popular Latina singer, and Percy an American operative, working with the Ford Foundation, and rescuing potential refugees in the midst of some local political upheaval with the help of a band of college fraternity brothers who all went into diplomacy or foreign aid work. In the end of such a version, Marguerite might sing this song in a public performance (presumably safely in the United States!) while Percy sat in the audience, knowing the words were meant for him._

___And yet, this song seems no less appropriate for the romance of Aurore de Marigny and André Vallon, the female and male protagonists of Baroness Orczy's **Child of the Revolution **(1932)._

_Orczy's attitude toward revolutionary ideology was always a rather critical one (a disposition I try not to hold against her), and yet André is a sympathetic character, a self-made "canaille" who suffers humiliation for his low birth as a child; earns accolades as a scholarship student at university; makes his reputation as Danton's secretary early in the revolution; loses his arm at the Battle of Valmy in September, 1792; and then becomes a professor to blind and deaf students in Paris. André's wife, Aurore, is a former aristocrat whom André first encounters in his home town before the revolution. Their marriage begins as one of constraint, as Aurore marries André to save herself and her aristocratic father (a thoroughly unpleasant character somewhat reminiscent of Yvonne de Kernogan's father in **Lord Tony's Wife**). Throughout much of the novel's second and third sections, André and Aurore feud while fighting a growing attraction to one another._

_This piece is set in the midst of the novel's final crisis: André, denounced to the Revolutionary Tribunal by Aurore's hostile father, faces arrest; attempting to save him, Aurore is compelled to reveal that she has fallen in love with her husband (who has long since harbored feelings for her); and so the two are brought together in the last hours before André will be taken to prison. (I don't wish to spoil the story more than I already have by revealing the ending, but I can assure readers it is available at the Blakeney Manor website for all who may wish to read it and have not already done so.)_

_While Orczy's narrative ellipses over the scene that ensues, what follows below is my imagination of how it might have been. _

_I have rated it T, but wish to warn all readers that the piece below does contain references to wedded passion and wartime violence. _

_Once again, I offer apologies, to indicate that I mean no offense, and hope none is taken. However, those who may be uncomfortable with such subjects may wish to forego reading this piece. _

_As always, it is offered with grateful thanks to all who may have comments, negative or positive. _

_This piece, like the previous one I posted, is dedicated to BaronessOrc, who brought __**Child of the Revolution **__to my attention, enriching my life in this, as in so many other, ways. _

_It is also dedicated to the many Andrés and Aurores who risk their lives to serve in our armed forces overseas. _

André Vallon studied the shaft of afternoon sunlight visible from his bedroom window as it dwindled to a mere sliver.

The sun was setting; soon it would be dark.

Soon they would come for him.

He knew that he should be feeling fear, or grief; that his heart should be pounding with the apprehension of death. Perhaps his beautiful wife Aurore was right: he should be picking his way over the rooftops of Paris, looking for a means to escape the fate of arrest and almost certain death that awaited him, instead of lying here, motionless, luxuriating in a warm bed.

But somehow, in the languor of spent passion, all André could summon was a vague feeling of sorrow at the knowledge that his joy was fleeting.

For it was joy, beyond all else, he felt at the moment. More than joy; ecstasy. Ecstasy as he had felt her body shudder beneath his lips and the exploration of his single hand; ecstasy as he felt her sighs fall about him like healing rain; ecstasy as they had clung together, soothing each other with slow kisses.

He thought of the years when the memory of her eyes and fragile form had danced before him in restless dreams; the wracking torment of longing he'd endured once he'd married her. For months he had lain wretched in a lonely bed, mocked by private demons who jeered at his restraint, goading him to gain her bedchamber and simply take what he wanted.

But now, in what still seemed to him like a miracle, Aurore had come to him. And the woman he had hungered for as long as he could remember lay beside him at last, his alone.

Basking in the glow of his wife's love, André Vallon could only marvel at how the glory of their union had exceeded all his fevered fantasies.

Aurore stirred and nestled closer into his body.

For a precious second, she burrowed her fragrant hair into his chest, then lifted her head to study her husband carefully.

"It's getting late," she whispered. "You should go, my love."

André gave his wife a tender look. "I have absolutely no intention of leaving you one instant earlier than I must," he replied.

This was, Aurore realized, his final answer, and his decision.

Aurore was silent. In the growing dusk, her troubled eyes wandered over his beloved form: the deep, dark eyes that had terrified and fascinated her from the first; the chestnut hair that she could discern along the pillow; the strong shoulders that ended, on the left side, in a jagged stump, blackened and scarred.

They had so little time left, and there was so much she still did not know about him.

There was so much she needed to know, if she was to survive what was to come.

Aurore lifted her own left hand to trace a finger gently along André's left shoulder, grazing the tracery of scars at the edge of what was left of his arm. He shivered, pleasing her, but then seemed to wince.

"Does it hurt?" Aurore wanted to know.

"No." André's voice was flat, as if to cut off further discussion.

But Aurore continued to study him searchingly, and he found himself helpless before the mute devotion in her eyes.

"Sometimes," he relented.

"Tell me," she urged him softly. "Tell me how it feels."

André remained silent, but Aurore persisted, driven by love, and desperation.

"Tell me," she whispered again. "How did it happen?"

André gazed into his wife's eyes and hesitated. So many times, his voice had risen to curse the Prussian and Austrian soldiers who had marched mindlessly to crush the hopes of the great revolution. So many times, with a voice and heart twisted by bitterness, he had mocked their crisp uniforms, their well-fed bodies, sneered at the way those stalwart soldiers of the old Empire had been humiliated by the rag-tag army of patriots who stood firm to defend France at the Battle of Valmy.

But never once, in those diatribes, had he spoken about what that victory had cost him.

Never once had he spoken about the explosion-- not even to his dear departed mother, the gentle soul who had offered him wordless comfort after he'd returned, broken and maimed, from the wars.

And yet, here were the eyes of the woman he loved, shining with love and longing, inviting confidences he'd never dreamed he would be able to share with anyone.

The splendors of the east glimmered before André Vallon.

Here was a chance to speak his mind at last, and be redeemed.

Tempted beyond endurance, André finally drew a deep breath to begin his story.

"It was dark the night of the battle," he started, haltingly. "There was a bright moon, but an abundance of clouds kept drifting over to cover it. We were a massive army, divided into smaller corps, all under the Generals, Dumouriez and Kellermann."

André paused a moment to close his eyes in pleasure as Aurore adjusted herself by his side, and lifted her hand to lightly trace a finger across his chest in encouragement.

"If you do that, I won't be able to tell you anything," he teased.

Aurore looked up to smile into his darkened gaze. Her eyes were gentle, but determined. "Go on," she urged.

André shifted his gaze to the ceiling for a moment, and remembered again. "General Kellermann was a great man. Dumouriez's force had been cut off from ours a few days earlier, and so it was our army, under Kellermann's command, that would have to fight, isolated from the others. The general knew that we were outnumbered by those well-heeled dogs. Our cannons were new, but our clothes were tattered and our shoes worn out. It was late September--not summer anymore. There was no frost yet, but at night, it could become chilly enough for limbs to ache and long for a warm fire. Kellermann knew that many of the men were demoralized and exhausted. So he raised a cry about the camp: _Vive la nation_! Captains and soldiers together put our helmets on the end of our bayonets and raised them as we shouted the cry, over, and over, until our voices were hoarse, and our courage had risen."

André was silent a moment, lost in the memory of that frantic chorus, the fear that he and his men had felt, and their resolve to fight to the death, if necessary, to preserve their republic.

Aurore swallowed, and placed a timid kiss on her husband's right shoulder. "You were cold," she said, and her voice held a timbre of sympathy that sought to warm away the ache of the chilly night her husband had suffered.

André sighed, and pressed his wife's beloved form closer. "We were all cold, _ma mie," _he explained, with a sad smile. "We were all frightened, but determined not to let the enemy see it. Kellermann gambled that if we put up a brave front, the enemy might be deterred from an infantry attack."

"And his gamble paid off. They started to pound us with their cannon, but they didn't attack our flanks."

Aurore felt her husband's remaining fist clench beside her. "We had cannons too, and we repaid them, volley for volley."

He drew a breath, and went on. "We spent half the night, firing cannon balls into to the air, hearing the screams of wounded on our side, and from the enemy's. Our detachment was brisk, well-organized---the men I fought with had no equal anywhere. And I was so proud that night...so proud of our young _République_, of how it could stand up to any army, any threat...." André's voice trailed off.

Aurore looked up at her husband expectantly, hearing a change in his tone. On instinct, she placed her lips delicately against his shoulder again, and closed her eyes.

"And then, suddenly, there was an explosion beside us. Enemy cannon fire. I remember a flash in the night--by then it was quite late, almost dawn. And I lost consciousness."

Aurore was very still, holding her breath, as her husband continued.

"I don't remember exactly when I came awake, but I was lying on the ground--exactly where I'd fallen, I suppose. And I remember..." André's voice choked a bit, and his breath hitched. "...I remember that in that first light of morning, I saw my hand--my wrist, a bit of my arm, lying a few feet away from me--deathly white, pale, almost as if it were stone, or marble. I don't know how I knew it was _my_ hand, and yet somehow, it seemed so familiar to me that I was quite certain...and I remember that my first thought was a question," André gave a short laugh then, as he contemplated the strangely unreal quality of his initial bemusement. "What the devil is my hand doing over there?"

Aurore tightened her grip around her husband's body, heedless of the tears that had started in her eyes.

André might have ended his tale at that.

Yet he found now he could not be silent.

The floodgates had been opened.

"I looked down," André continued, "and saw that my shoulder was a bloody, revolting mess of skin, and blood, and…heaven only knows…..and oddly," André swallowed hard, "it was only then that I noticed the pain. It was in my arm, but somehow everywhere at once. I began to tremble, and I became nauseated......I remember hearing a voice, screaming...and then realizing it was my own...."

Aurore was clinging to her husband now. Tears were running down her face. She was barely aware of her open palm, moving back and forth across his chest, vainly seeking to heal the wounds of years before.

"After the battle," André went on, "they carried me off the field to a makeshift area of tents they'd created for the wounded. The surgeon congratulated me on my good fortune--the explosion had cauterized the wound, and so there was little work for him. I would heal, and live, he told me. Other men had been killed--we lost three hundred men at the Battle of Valmy. Three hundred! Those Imperial popinjays were driven away with casualties half that! And I had survived to tell the tale when other men had not!"

"When I could walk," André finished, "I began to make my way home. I tramped during the day, then slept at night beneath trees, in empty barns, living off the food that kindly strangers offered me, the stray draught of wine. The worst of my wound had healed by then, but perversely, there was pain--not in my shoulder, but _in my arm_. In the arm that wasn't there. I would fall asleep and dream that I was holding, carrying, eating, drinking, never with the one arm I had left, always with two. And then I would come awake, and remember that my left arm was gone. And all I could think was, 'I'm half a man now.'"

"And then, one day, as I neared my home," and now André's eyes turned to his wife, the bitterness of memory relieved, at last, by the sweetness of the present, "I stumbled into a vision on the road. A vision of the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen--the most beautiful girl I could remember. She offered me a sip of wine; she supported me as I faltered. Once, many years before, my hands had caught you, to rescue you from falling. Now, your tiny, perfect hands steadied me." He reached out his single hand to capture hers, and lifted it to his lips. "And I laughed at the irony of it because I had no hope in my heart at that moment; only anger, and pain, and wretchedness."

Aurore looked at their joined hands and found a way to smile at her husband through her tears. "I was so frightened of you that afternoon," she confessed.

"And I, too, was frightened," André admitted. "Frightened of what you still could make me feel." He abandoned her hand now, to draw his fingers along her back in a gentle caress. "Terrified," he said more softly, "of what you still could make me desire."

He hesitated a moment, and then brought out the last of his own confession. "After we were married, I used to dream of you, _ma mie_. But always, in my dreams," his voice caught again, in a final admission, "I had two arms to hold you with, two hands to touch you."

Aurore's chin lifted a little at that, and her eyes took on an odd, defiant, glow.

In the last embers of the setting sun, in the darkening shadows of early evening, it seemed to André Vallon that the eyes of his wife were the eyes of a tigress; an angry goddess; or, perhaps, an avenging angel.

And then, Aurore de Marigny Vallon found the courage to voice the sentiments of her heart; words to seal the marriage vow she'd taken over a year before, but only fully honored in the past few hours.

"I would not have you other than you are, André," Aurore declared. "If I could go back in time, I swear I would tear into pieces any foolish, wicked being who ever hurt you. I would rip Hector Talon to shreds for ordering you to be beaten as a child..."

"_Ma mie_," Andre interposed, moved by her words.

"....I would hurl that cannon ball back at those who launched it..."

André could not resist a soft laugh. "Such fierce threats," he teased, "from such a delicate source!"

Aurore shook her head impatiently, "You cannot say that you are half a man when you are all the man I've ever wanted," she declared, "the only man I've ever loved! The world is full of men with intact bodies, and narrow, stunted minds. But my husband, however flawed his body may be," and here Aurore's voice rose, "is a man of courage, with a breadth of vision, of wisdom, that few will ever command and which all should envy. I would have no other."

"And I will love you," Aurore's voice trembled and lowered as she finished her speech, "until I die."

Some, in the world outside, might have regarded André Vallon as a wounded cripple; others as a hero of war. The soldiers of the Republic who would arrive, within a few short hours, to arrest him, might condemn him as traitor to the revolution that had demolished centuries of royal rule. Far beyond the boundaries of his own country, and his own time, others might celebrate--or challenge---André Vallon for the aid he had lent the early revolution with his pen, his sword, his eloquence; might laud or castigate him for espousing the ideals of _liberté, égalité, and fraternité_ that had animated his arguments for the Revolution's principles; might question the assault upon the privileges of Europe's _Ancien Régime _that he, and others like him, had defended.

But in those moments, after he heard his wife's musical voice declare her unconditional love, André Vallon could have found only one phrase to describe his own condition.

He was surely the most fortunate man in France.


End file.
